


Something For Nothing

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: All-American Rejects
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grifters, M/M, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From 2007-8, and I'm amnestying this one because I have <em>no idea how to continue and end it</em>. What I have about 75% of the plot, but what has refused to come from the beginning is the <em>rest</em> of the plot. They prevail somehow, because that is how stories work (at least, the fic I write, it is how it works), and there is a happy ending (see: this is me writing this). Er. Pretend it's there *handwave*</p><p>This is a <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b007gf9k">Hustle</a> AU! That means grifters and such. If you're unfamiliar with Hustle, the crew and how cons work are, I hope, adequately explained as it goes along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something For Nothing

**Six months ago**

Chris was making good use of the free wireless, Shabba was shuffling cards, Nick was opening a bottle of wine, and Kim was counting up their funds when the knock came.

They paused, looking at each other, and then calmly swept everything off the table and scattered around the suite. Nick answered the door.

“Hi,” Chris heard a voice. “Hi, Tyson Ritter, you’ve probably heard of me.” Nick shook his head, leaning with one hand against the door. “Oh. Well, I’ve — I’ve heard of you, you’re Nick Wheeler, right, I heard you’ve got a score and I want in. On, on the score.”

“Right. And you’re going to tell me why I should do that, are you?” Nick sounded amused.

“Yes.” Tyson Ritter, whoever he was, didn’t sound too sure. “I’m good, I know all the classics — I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

Nick shrugged. “I’m not looking for anyone.”

“Well,” Tyson’s voice stumbled, “well, you’ve found me.”

“No,” Nick pointed out, “you found _me_. And I’m busy.”

“But — oh no, don’t close the —”

“Sorry,” Nick said, audibly smiling, and shut the door. He turned around. “Right. Shab, we’ve got a mark to reel in.”

It was a pretty standard Rag con they were doing, only this time the mark seemed content with the convincer. “I want to go again,” Shabba said, but the mark shook his head.

“I’m four thousand dollars up,” he clutched the envelope of notes. “Thanks, Mr Georgeson,” he said to Nick, “but I’ll leave it at that.”

“But there’s no risk,” Shabba pointed out. “Four hundred percent return in two days. Two _days_.”

The mark shook his head again. “No, I think I’m fine with this.”

“It’s up to you —” Nick started, but there was a knock before he could continue. Kim, playing her Glamorous Assistant role, opened the door.

“Mr Georgeson is with clients —” she said, but a tall man strode past her and straight up to Nick.

“Mr Georgeson,” he said, grabbing Nick’s hand and shaking it. “Sir, it’s been an honour. Wow. Six hundred percent return in a week — I can hardly believe it.”

“Well, Mr, er, _Harris_ , you’re welcome.” He pulled his hand away. “Gentlemen, this is Mr Harris, another client of mine.”

“Pleased to meet you.” He shook Shabba’s hand and then the mark’s, saying, “This man is a genius.” Then he turned to Nick again and said, “I want to go again. But this time, I want to go _big_.”

The mark left five minutes later, agreeing to an office meeting the next day. Gatecrasher turned to Kim as Nick was shutting the door and whispered, “I’m Tyson.”

“I know,” Kim whispered back, and then Nick strode over and punched him.

Tyson felt his jaw. “I’m in, right?”

Nick walked away. “You’re in.”

$

**Now**

“So you’re the banker, right?” Tyson asked Kim as he cut the card deck.

“Right.” She watched, waiting for him to reach whatever his point was.

“We got everything a good crew needs,” he continued, shuffling. “Nick’s the inside man, the leader, so he’s the brains. You’re the money, and the lure. Shabba’s the roper, Chris is the fixer, they’re providers, so — what does that make me?”

Kim ruffled his hair. “You work the inside with Nick, Ty. You know that.”

“You sure I’m not just the kid he tolerates?” Tyson glanced over his shoulder at the sliding door leading to the balcony. Nick had been out there for almost an hour.

Kim sighed. “I know he’s hard on you. I also know he thinks you can handle it.”

Tyson dealt the cards. “Yeah, well. He’s fucking impossible to impress.”

The corners of her mouth quirked up. “Awww. You’re trying to impress him?”

“Shut up.” He put the rest of the cards onto the table and picked up his hand. “Ten.” He dropped a ten-dollar note on the table and she dropped another on top of it. “I just want to learn from him, you know? He’s the best.”

“Right,” Kim snorted, putting a card down and taking the one he handed to her. “You just want to _learn_ from him.”

“Shut up,” he repeated, shoving her with his knee under the table. He put two cards down and took two from the deck. “Twenty.” Another note flopped onto the others.

“Raise. Fifty.” Kim dropped the notes on top of Tyson’s and said, “He could do with being less tense.”

“You’re telling me.” Tyson moved two twenties and a ten onto the pot pile. She discarded two cards and he dealt her two more. “Is he ever going to let up on me?” He replaced two more cards in his own hand.

“Do you mean is he going to actually tell you when you’ve done well, or is he going to let you get in his pants?” He kicked her that time, and she smirked. “You folding?”

“Nope.” He rearranged his hand a little.

“Show me what you got.”

He fanned the cards out. “Straight.”

She nodded, face blank, and then showed her own. “Royal flush.” Grinning, she counted up her winnings. “Go again?”

Tyson blew the air out of his cheeks. “Fine. But let’s make it strip poker instead.”

“Fuck off,” she snorted. “Go on. Cut.”

“So really, nobody on this crew is going to screw me, are they?” Tyson sighed, shuffling the cards up again.

“You’ve got to stop thinking with your dick, Ty,” she reached over and patted his shoulder. “People’ll think it’s the only brain you have.”

Tyson heard a laugh behind him, and turned around. Nick had come back in. “Hey, I didn’t say anything,” he held up his hands. Tyson raised his eyebrows.

“I got brains,” he muttered, turning back to the deck.

“Gentlemen,” Shabba’s voice boomed as the suite door opened and he strode in, “and lady,” beaming at Kim. “We have a mark.”

$$$

Philip Baker had been having lunch at a very expensive, very exclusive restaurant. The waiters appeared to be morons who couldn’t get a simple order right to save their mothers’ lives, and he wrote down a couple of names to give to the manager, have them fired. He was a _very_ important customer. _Very important._ He wouldn’t tolerate being served by half-wits.

The man sitting at the next table looked over as he was giving the youngest waitress a good dressing-down. He looked like a decent sort of a guy, so Baker called over, “The _staff_ in this place,” when she’d scurried away. (In tears. Pathetic.)

The man nodded. “Don’t know why I still come here,” he sympathised.

Baker closed his menu and put it down. “Why don’t we go somewhere else, eh? Somewhere with _whiskey_.”

The man broke into a smile. “Sir, that is the best idea I have heard all day.” He stood up, holding out a hand. “Albert Keller.”

Baker shook it. “Philip Baker. I know just the place.”

$$$

“He’s a financier,” Shabba said, clicking through the slides of the pictures he’d taken of Baker. “Backs movies, also owns shares in all the major corrupt companies in the US, and some minor ones. Has a wife and two or possibly three adult kids, the third either died or was disowned, from the way he talks it was probably the latter, though it’s difficult to tell. He is an objectionable man, bigoted, hateful, entitled, made a waitress cry because his soup was too cold. He is also _greedy_.”

“What’s the in?” Nick asked.

“He’s already fixed for stocks, so he wouldn’t go for that. He loves golf and money, but there is one other thing he loves. His one weakness.” Shabba clicked to the next slide. “Art.”

“Collector or amateur?” Chris asked, phone already open.

“Definitely amateur. He’s more passionate than knowledgeable, and he has a thing for new talent. Wants to discover the new Michaelangelo or Picasso. He thinks I’m Albert Keller, a fellow movie financier, and I told him I had a few connections in the art world who keep an eye out for new talent before anybody else gets there.”

“Did he take the bait?” Nick looked thoughtful.

“Like feeding candy to a toddler. He wants to set up a meeting.”

“I love it when the marks do all the work,” Tyson grinned. He was watching Nick. “You got a plan, boss?”

Nick nodded. “Chris, I’ll need an artist and a gallery. Separate.”

“I can get us a space, do you want press as well?” Chris asked.

“The full works. We’ll need a journalist too, an art critic. Someone legit.”

“No problem. Any preference on the artist?”

“Someone kinda quirky. Not quite what you’d see every day.”

“Got it.” Chris scrolled through the contacts on his phone.

“Shab’ll need a car, too, and I’ll need studio space.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Chris got up and headed over to his table.

“Oh, and Chris?” Nick called over. “Find me somewhere with a view.”

“You know you don’t have to ask.” Chris opened his laptop and got to work.

Nick turned to the others. “Shab, bring him in, tell him you can set him up with a dealer who manages new artists. Kim, Ty, I want you guys out of sight for now. Kim, you’ll be a rival buyer.” He looked at Shabba. “The mark a misogynist?”

“Through and through. I feel sorry for his poor wife.”

“Dumb blonde Texas chick with Daddy’s oil money?” Kim suggested, thickening up her accent.

“He won’t be able to resist,” Nick beamed at her proudly. “Ty, how d’you feel about being a tortured artist?”

“I refuse to work in these _conditions_ ,” Tyson flounced.

“Alright, let’s get this son of a bitch.”

$$$

It took Chris all afternoon, but he found everything on Nick’s shopping list. The artist he had lined up would only meet him if it happened in a certain gay bar at 10pm, but the place was classy without being horrendous, and Chris kind of liked it there.

“So you’ll do it?” Chris asked, watching Gerard light another cigarette. This was the reason he’d only meet in that bar; it had a private smoking room you could get into if you knew the owner. Which Gerard did.

“How long have I got?” He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

“A week.”

Gerard sucked in his breath. “I’ll need another three thousand if you want it in a week.”

“Two thousand.”

“You’re rushing quality.” Gerard sat back. “Two fifty.”

“How about _one_ fifty?”

“How about you kiss my ass? You know how much it costs to source good material at this short notice?”

Chris didn’t say anything.

“Fine. Two thousand.”

“Done.” Chris pulled out an envelope. “Half now, half when the painting’s ready.” He stood up. “Call me.”

Gerard thumbed through the notes, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Nice doing business with you.”

Chris called Nick, let him know they were on with Gerard, and after he hung up he figured why not stay in the bar for a while. He was done with work for the day, so he ordered a drink and sat back to watch everybody else.

There was a guy sitting further along the bar. He wasn’t clean-shaven, but he couldn’t exactly be said to have a beard either, just the beginnings of one. His hair was dark and sort of long, he was smiling wide, and Chris couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were in the bar’s lighting, but either way, he was hot. Chris moved along the bar and over to him. “Hi,” he said, “can I buy you a drink?”

The guy turned a bright smile to him and said, “Sure. I’ll have a beer, please.”

The fact that he’d said _please_ sort of made him really endearing. Chris ordered and then said, “I’m Chris, by the way.”

“Mike.” The smile crinkled up the corners of his eyes.

They took their drinks over to a booth and talked. Mike was an engineer at a recording studio in Burbank, he lived alone, he liked dogs but his apartment was too small for one, and he went to a lot of punk shows. Chris brushed away questions of his own job with a, “Oh, I do a bit of everything.” He kept watching the way Mike’s lips enveloped the neck of his beer bottle. He was getting hard.

“Hey,” Mike said, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “You got a little,” and he moved closer, and then he was kissing Chris.

Chris groaned and shifted, close, one hand palming up Mike’s thigh. He tasted of beer when Chris eased his tongue into Mike’s mouth; Mike moaned softly, kissed him _hard_ , and then his hand connected with Chris’s crotch and Chris broke away to hiss. “Want to come back to my place?” Mike asked, and Chris nodded.

“Fuck yes,” he added, for emphasis. Mike kissed him again, quick and hard, and then grabbed his hand and stood.

He didn’t live far, just a few blocks south. The apartment was indeed small, but as far as Chris was concerned that just meant less time between the door and the bed. He was hardly aware of their clothes coming off; in the dim light, he kissed every inch of Mike’s exposed skin, made him arch, made him writhe. He closed his mouth over Mike’s cock and gave a suck, releasing it with a wet sound.

“Condoms,” Mike breathed, groping in a drawer. He threw one to Chris, rummaged further in the drawer, and dropped a bottle of lube onto the bed.

He was a little tight, at first, when Chris sank into him. He was good and slick, though, and relaxed as Chris dragged his cock in and out. Mike gripped at the pillow under his hands, made tiny noises in his throat. Chris licked at his shoulder blades and murmured, low, in his ear, “This isn’t your first time with a dude, is it?”

“No.” Mike’s breathing was ragged. “It’s just been a while since I got fucked.”

Chris pushed in faster, harder, speeding up the rhythm of his hand on Mike’s cock. “How do you like it?”

“This is good. I don’t mind, just — fuck, Chris.” Mike’s head dropped down as Chris changed the angle. “ _Fuck_.”

Chris bit softly at the back of his neck, humming deep in his throat. It came out sounding like a growl. Mike whimpered. “Want me to go faster?” Chris asked him, curving a smile.

“As long as you don’t stop, I don’t care.” Mike hissed in his breath as Chris circled the pad of his thumb over the head of Mike’s cock. Chris pushed in harder, speeding up his rhythm, thighs shaking. “Fuck, Chris, gonna — _fuck_ ,” Mike exhaled, and then he came. Chris rode the movement until Mike went limp. He pushed back a little as Chris kept thrusting into him, and Chris came a minute later with a low groan.

They collapsed onto their backs, Chris still breathing hard. He pulled the condom off, tied a knot in the end, and dropped it into the trash can by the bed.

“You have to be anywhere?” Mike asked, between pants.

“Not really.” Chris wondered if Mike was a cuddler.

“Want to stay the night?”

“Okay. I have to be at work early, though.”

“Me too.” Mike turned over, and Chris did the same, and Mike slung an arm over his waist. So. Mike _was_ a cuddler. Chris smiled into the pillow and settled against his chest.

He woke the next morning to the smell of coffee. “Hey,” said a voice above him. Chris opened his eyes and saw a really hot guy standing over him. Then he remembered — _Mike. Right._ “I have to go to work in a half hour, you want to grab a shower?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Chris sat up, running a hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“Six. You got work early too, right?”

“Right. Thank you.”

Mike smiled at him. “There’s coffee if you want some after your shower. And I’m making waffles.”

“You are awesome,” Chris declared, yawning. “Which way’s the bathroom?”

The hot water woke him up properly, and he started going over the plan again. The studio had to be ready by lunch time, and the gallery promo he’d started would have to be stepped up a notch. He could do a trip to the printer’s after they dropped the mark off. He dried himself with Mike’s towel and hung it back over the radiator, figuring he wouldn’t need to cover up while looking for his clothes. He found them in a tangle and noticed Mike watching appreciatively, so he wriggled his butt as he pulled his jeans on. Mike laughed and hummed something.

“You want some breakfast?” he called over.

Chris pulled his shirt on. “I really only have time for coffee, but thanks. I’ll grab something at work.”

“Alright.” Mike popped the last bite of his waffle into his mouth and pointed to a mug on the counter, the coffee pot next to it. “It’s nothing fancy. You want milk and sugar?”

“Black’s good.” Chris poured himself some, and sat at the tiny folding table. He sipped.

“I know,” Mike said to the face he made. “There’s a Starbucks a couple of blocks away, if you want to go there.”

“No, it’s — it’s fine.” He tried to arrange his features into any expression but ‘yeuch’.

Mike snorted. “Liar.”

“I should probably get to work anyway.” Chris looked at his watch. “Shit, yeah.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the chair he’d slung it over the night before. “Listen, thanks, Mike. For last night, and the shower and the crappy coffee. I had a good time.”

“Yeah, so did I.” Mike took a piece of paper he’d been fiddling with and held it out. “My number. Call me.”

Chris pocketed it.

He let himself back into the suite whe he got home. The main room was deserted, so he took his jacket off and was about to go in search of the room service breakfast menu when Tyson came in, sort of limped over to the ice machine, grabbed a handful and shoved them down the front of his pants.

“Morning.” Chris raised an eyebrow.

Tyson jumped. “Hi. Uh. Nick’s doing yoga,” he jerked a thumb at the connecting door he’d come through. His hand was still in his pants, but he pulled it out and dropped the ice cubes onto the table, sucking at the side of his palm. “Fucking cold.”

“Yeah, Ty. Ice is cold.” Chris smirked.

“Fuck you, Nick’s _bending_ in there.” Tyson dropped into a chair. Chris patted his shoulder as he passed.

Nick was, indeed, doing yoga. “Where were you last night?” he asked, back in a seamless arch.

“Hooked up. Anything happen?”

“Nope.” Nick undulated upright again.

Chris watched for a moment. “You know you’re killing the poor kid, right?” He inclined his head at the door.

“Ty’s not a kid. And I’m not trying to kill him, I just.” Nick breathed out, changing position. “I just don’t sleep with people I work with.”

Chris cleared his throat.

“That was different,” Nick said, firm, opening one eye to glare at him.

“If you say so. You want to get breakfast? I have some things to pick up, we could get some Starbucks.”

“Sure, just let me finish.” He went into another stretch.

“Take your time.” Chris headed to his room. May as well get changed.

$$$

Tyson and Kim had been instructed to keep out of the way, so after Chris, Shabba and Nick left to set up the studio and pick up the mark, Kim suggested they go to the bar.

Toad’s was a haven for grifters, an out-of-the-way place people generally didn’t stumble upon unless they already knew it would be there if they looked. Inside, however, it was stylish and airy. Tyson’s sharp suit and Kim’s designer skirt looked perfectly at home against the leather upholstery in the booths.

“Oh, it’s you,” Toad greeted them.

“Toad, Toad, Toad,” Tyson shook his head, sighing dramatically, “is that any way to address your favourite customers?”

“You’d be my favourite customers if you actually paid your bill,” Toad pointed out.

“Oh Toad,” Kim tutted, hopping up on tiptoes to reach over the bar and kiss his cheek, “I thought we were friends.”

Toad looked for a minute like he would crack, but then he shook his head. “We are. And friends don’t let friends go out of business, do they?”

“Alright, alright,” Tyson said, “how about, I bet you —”

“No bets,” Toad interrupted. “I’m not falling for that again.”

“Yes, but you can’t lose this one, I promise.” Tyson gave him the soulful puppy eyes. He didn’t look at Kim, because he could already tell she was trying not to laugh.

Toad narrowed his eyes, but he said, “Go on then.”

“Okay. I bet you two beers that you can’t guess what card I give you.”

“Now, that’s not fair,” Toad protested. “You’ll do some trickery thing.” He gestured with both hands.

Tyson pouted. “To a _friend_?”

Toad still looked suspicious. “Yes. You’re a grifter, Ty, all grifters cheat.”

“Toad!” Kim sounded shocked. “How dare you, do you really think we’d cheat a friend? Someone who didn’t deserve it?”

Toad was starting to squirm. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“I’m insulted,” Kim shook her head. “Are you insulted?” she asked Tyson.

“I’m insulted,” he echoed.

Toad crossed his arms. “Pay. For your drinks.”

“Not if you keep insulting us like this,” Tyson shook his head sadly. “We give you loyalty, Toad. That is a valuable thing in our society. Think about that.”

Toad’s eyes narrowed again. “I’m grateful. I’d be even more grateful if you’d pay your tab.”

“Okay, okay,” Tyson held his hands up. “How about a coin toss? You call, heads or tails.”

Toad hesitated. “I call?”

“You call,” Tyson confirmed.

Toad eyed him. “While it’s in the air?”

Tyson sighed. “I am shocked that you still don’t trust me.” Toad waited, until Tyson said, “Yes, of course while it’s in the air.”

“Alright. Two beers, was it?” Toad popped the caps on the bottles and set them on the bar while Tyson took a nickel from his pocket.

“You win, we pay the tab, including these. You lose, they go on selfsame tab. Okay?”

“Okay.” Toad watched as Tyson flicked the coin, and while it was in the air, said, “Heads.”

Tyson caught the coin and uncovered it. “Tails.”

Kim picked the beers up and reached over to kiss his cheek again. “Thanks, Toad.”

“Yeah,” Tyson beamed, taking his bottle as she handed it to him. “Thanks, Toad.”

They slid into a booth and Kim whispered, “That was your double-tails nickel, wasn’t it?”

“Yup.” Tyson swigged back his beer.

“How’d you know he’d pick heads?”

Tyson grinned. “He always picks heads.”

She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What, and you aren’t?”

$$$

The pieces were set in motion. Chris spent most of his time setting up the gallery, making sure the fliers were getting distributed where the mark would see them, running the website, and dressing Nick’s studio to look like an art dealer’s place; the rest of his time was spent driving Shabba, as Albert Keller.

The mark, like all marks, was, on the whole, rude and unpleasant. The first time he met Nick, who was posing as Michael Lester, he flicked his eyes over him and said, dismissively, “I had a son called Michael once.” He sniffed, managing to convey with one sentence and one short sound just how much he thought of people called Michael. Or perhaps people called Michael who didn’t ooze dollars out of their pores. He looked right through Chris, who merely kept his face straight and tipped his hat.

The convincer in this con would be the painting, and after the gallery show, he’d be Tyson’s financial backer with an upfront payment and an agreed commission on all future work. Only, there wouldn’t be any. If they want something for nothing, the old grifter’s saying goes, give them nothing for something.

A week into the con, it was time for the mark to meet Tyson. The gallery was ready, Gerard was sending someone over with the finished painting an hour before they got there, and Kim and Nick were in place. Chris drove Shabba to the mark’s house to pick him up.

It was a spacious mansion in the hills. Chris leaned against the hood of the rented Bentley when Shabba had gone inside; the mark would insist he had a drink, and they’d talk business a little, before they came back out again. Chris stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around.

The gardens were beautiful. Someone obviously was paid a lot of money to maintain them, and as far as Chris could see, that money was _earned_. The front door opened as he was contemplating the shrubbery, and he snapped to attention, surprised they were ready to go so soon.

But the people who came out of the house weren’t Shabba and the mark. It was Mike, and a woman Chris recognised from the photos as the mark’s wife.

“Thanks for trying, Mom,” Mike was saying, and gave her a quick hug. “I’ll see you on Sunday?”

“Of course. You take care, Mikey.”

He shook his head. Chris tried not to overhear, but the air was still and it carried to him, “Mom, you know I think you should —”

“Save it, Michael,” she warned. “I’ve told you, I’m not leaving your father.”

“I know. Yeah, I know. Look after yourself, Mom.”

Chris tugged his hat down low over his eyes and watched his shoes as Mike turned and started walking down the path towards him. He counted the beats under his breath, got up to four, and then heard, “Hey — Chris?”

He looked up. This close, in the sunshine, he was even hotter. “Mike?”

“Hey, I — what are you doing here, what — hey, you didn’t call.”

“Uh.” Where the fuck is an earthquake when you need one? “Yeah, listen, I really wanted to, I’ve just been insanely busy at work —”

“It’s okay. It’s cool. You didn’t have to.”

“No, I _really wanted to_ ,” Chris repeated, moving forwards.

“Work, right?” Chris nodded, and Mike looked at his hat. “You’re a cheuffeur?”

“Sometimes. I work for Mr Keller, do a lot of stuff. I drive him where he needs to go.”

“He keeps you pretty busy, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah he does.” Chris swallowed. “Look —”

“So do I get to see you again?” Mike interrupted. “Because I’d kind of like to.”

Chris knew he should say no. He should say no, because this guy was _the mark’s son_ , but before he could even think he just opened his mouth and said, “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Thursday alright for you? We could maybe, I don’t know, see a movie or something.”

“How’s eight o’clock?” Chris asked, without thinking.

“Great. You can get the time off work?”

“He’s understanding sometimes.” They were inching closer to each other. Chris felt his breathing getting short.

“Meaning you’ll demand,” Mike concluded, smiling wide.

“Yeah,” Chris nodded. Their mouths were pretty close. Chris’s eyes slid shut as the distance slowly disappeared, and then he was kissing Mike.

Kissing the mark’s son. In front of the mark’s _house_.

He kind of didn’t care, though, because Mike tasted pretty great, and he was a _really_ good kisser, and all Chris could think about was this one little sound Mike had made the week before, when Chris had licked just under his nipple.

“ _Morgan_ ,” a voice cut in. Chris came crashing back to reality as he and Mike broke apart.

Shabba was standing there. With the mark. Shabba looked surprised; the mark, on the other hand, just looked disgusted.

“I’ve told you,” he said to Mike, voice low and threatening. “You are no son of mine. Now get _out_ of here.”

“Oh, I’m not sticking around.” He threw Chris a smile. “Call me.” And then he got into his car, which was parked a few feet from the Bentley, and set off down the drive, giving Chris a little wave in the rear-view mirror.

“What is the meaning of this?” the mark continued, turning to Shabba. “You employ homosexuals? What next, are you going to hire a _dog_ as your secretary?”

Chris turned to Shabba. Who gave him the tiniest of signals, and instantly he understood. If the mark was homophobic, Albert Keller — the mark’s new bosom buddy — also must be homophobic. Especially if he wanted to do business with him. “I didn’t know,” Shabba said, forming it into a sneer. “Philip, let’s call a cab. Morgan, you’re fired. I don’t want to see you again, do you understand me?”

Chris set his jaw defiantly. “Yes, sir. I understand. Shall I leave the Bentley here, sir?”

“I won’t have you driving it,” Shabba confirmed. “You can find your own way home. And if you try claiming it on expenses —”

“I won’t,” Chris interrupted. “Goodbye, _sir_.” He turned and started walking down the drive.

He got to the gate.

Fuck.

$$$

“The man should be dealt with,” the mark fumed in the cab. “Put a black mark on him, Albert.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Shabba nodded. “He won’t work in this town again.”

“Good. His kind need to be taught a lesson.” The mark looked out of the window, and Shabba took the opportunity to let out the shudder and grimace he’d been repressing since the mark had told his son to leave.

When they got to the gallery, Nick was waiting. “I apologise for our tardiness,” Shabba said, reaching to shake his hand, “I had to fire my driver.”

Nick looked surprised, but discreetly so. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“If you’d call an abomination nothing serious,” the mark muttered. Nick barely flinched, eyes on Shabba, whose cheek twitched. Nick’s eyes widened the tiniest of amounts, but he covered it with an expansive smile as he went to shake the mark’s hand.

“Well, you’re here now. Gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me.” He led them into the gallery.

It was a small space, exuding an air of being the bottom end of the aspiring art world. “I hear you’ve got a rival backer,” the mark said to Nick as they walked.

Nick grinned at him. “Hey, I’m a businessman. I have to keep my options open.”

“You do,” the mark agreed. Shabba quickly flicked his eyes over the mark, noticing a slight swell of his chest and a glint in his eyes. Perfect; he was already hooked on the competition. One thing he’d learned since becoming bosom pals with this guy was that he couldn’t stand to lose out, had to always prove he was the best.

Nick led them into a room with tarpaulin over most of the paintings on the walls, one in the centre uncovered. It was a street scene, all angles and sharp focus on tiny inconsequential details, faces blurred. Tyson stood in front of it, wearing an outrageous shirt and very tight pants, sunglasses tipped onto his head. His hips were angled, his mouth arranged in a perfect pout, and all in all he looked like the most flamboyant of artists before he even spoke.

Shabba caught Tyson’s eye and shook his head very, very slightly. His eyes flicked to Kim, who was examining the painting and wearing a floor-sweeping, incredibly expensive and elegant coat, complete with miniscule designer clutch bag. Her wig was exuberant and platinum blonde, and she turned around, caught sight of the newcomers, and squealed softly.

“You must be the other folks,” she exclaimed, Texas accent thick. “Michael told me there was another possible backer, and I said to him, I would _surely_ like to meet him.” She beamed, and sauntered over, holding out a hand. “Stacie Heeley, pleasure to meet you.”

“Philip Baker,” the mark returned, all false warmth. His eyes roved over what he could see of Kim’s dress, which was rather short. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Shabba walked casually up to Tyson, hand extended. “Albert Keller.”

Tyson looked at his hand, and nodded. “Daniel Graveston,” he said, voice still with a touch of campness, but not nearly as much as he’d been practicing. “You’re the money?”

“No, but I guess my friend is,” Shabba beamed at him. Tyson flounced a little.

“I like the scenery on the other side of the room,” he said, turning to look at Kim and throwing Shabba a wink.

“I agree,” Shabba nodded, following Tyson’s line of sight. Nick stepped a little closer, and while Kim maneouvered the mark into turning his back to the three of them, they all simultaneously, automatically leaned closer.

“Don’t go nuts,” Shabba muttered quickly, “but Chris made out with the mark’s son, and he and I saw it.” Nick’s face clouded. “Nick. Nick. We’ll find him. _After_ we reel in the mark, okay? I had to fire him, mark’s the biggest fucking homophobe I’ve met in a long time.”

Tyson eyed the mark’s back with disgust. “How much can we take the fucker for?”

“As much as agreed,” Nick insisted, though his voice came out a growl. “Ty, flirt with Kim. She’ll play along. Don’t lay it on too thick, don’t want him thinking he’ll lose out just because you want to bang her.”

“Got it,” Tyson nodded.

Nick caught Kim’s eye over the mark’s shoulder and nodded very slightly, inclining his head towards Tyson. Kim raised a hand to flick her hair, twisting one strand around a finger for a second. Nick turned back to them and muttered, “She’s on. Let’s do this.”

$$$

Chris had been at Toad’s for hours when Nick found him there. Hardly looking at him, Nick just said, “We need to talk.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Nick, I didn’t know he was —”

“At the hotel.” Nick’s teeth were gritted. It was clear that Chris was in deep, deep shit.

They walked in silence to the hotel, Nick almost visibly seething. Chris swallowed a lot. Tyson was in the hotel room, cutting a deck of cards.

“Tyson, we need the room, please,” Nick said, quiet.

Tyson looked up. He glanced at Nick, then at Chris, and nodded. “I’ll, um. I need some air,” he muttered, and shut the door after him.

Nick turned to face Chris. “You almost cost us this fucking con.”

“I’m sorry, Nick, I didn’t know he was anything to do with the mark. I _swear_ —”

“Have you _any idea_ what — where are we going to find another driver? Everything’s in _place_ , and now you have to keep hidden. Who’ll fill in the cracks? Who’ll — you fucking almost _lost us_ this fucking _con_.” Anger rolled off Nick’s skin in waves. Chris felt like he was burning up from it.

“Shabba handled it,” he muttered, realising as he said it that it would only make things worse.

It did. “Yes, Chris, Shabba handled it.” Nick looked like he was about to explode. “ _Fuck_. How could you _do this_? You couldn’t keep it in your fucking pants outside the mark’s _fucking house_?”

Chris winced. “I know. I _know_ , I screwed up. I’m _sorry_ , Nick.”

“Don’t fucking screw up again. How does it — how does the thought process even go, Chris? What, you just _forgot_ you were outside the mark’s _fucking house_ with his _fucking son_?”

“I didn’t care!” Chris admitted, losing his cool like Nick had found the switch for it and flipped it to ‘off’. “I didn’t care, alright? Only for a second, and I know, I _know_ I put everything in danger, and it won’t happen again, I fucking _swear_ it won’t, I just. What was I supposed to say, sorry I can’t see you again, I didn’t know your estranged father is the dipshit we’re trying to con? I met him in a bar, he took me home, I fucked him, I had no fucking idea he had anything to do with this until I saw him at the house. _Okay_?”

“No, it is fucking _not_ okay. You do _not_ screw up like this again, Chris. _You do not_.”

“I won’t. I said I’m sorry, and I am.”

There was silence. Nick and Chris stared at each other, both breathing a little hard.

“How did the kid do?” Chris asked, at last.

Nick dropped onto a couch and ran a hand through his hair. “He was perfect. Flirted with Kim, dropped the camp shtick.”

“And the mark?”

“Wants to see the gallery show.” Nick tipped his head back, eyes closed. “Can you get us another driver before tomorrow?”

“Of course. I’ll handle the show, too.”

“Keep out of sight.”

“I will.” He paused. “I really am sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Nick kept his eyes closed. “I’ll stop being mad when the score goes right and the mark doesn’t bolt.”

“You got a plan B?” Chris asked, turning his phone over and over in his hands.

Nick opened one eye. “Don’t I always?”

Chris nodded. “Just let me know what you need.”

“Driver,” Nick said. Then he added, “Sleep,” and stood up and stretched. “Or possibly a drink.”

“I could buy you one,” Chris suggested. “Go to Toad’s?”

Nick eyed him. “Think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Oh.” Chris looked down at his phone, watching it turn a few times. “I’ll, um. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah.” Nick walked over to the minibar, and Chris shut the suite door behind him on his way out.

He leaned against the wall when he got to the hotel lobby. He played with the scrolling ball on his phone, back and forth, back and forth over Mike’s number. He tapped his fingers against the side of the phone, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, and then clicked the dial button.

“Hello?” came Mike’s voice.

“Hi, it’s Chris.”

“Hey! You want to work out a place to meet on Thursday?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could see you, um. Now.”

“Can’t wait, huh? I happen to be doing not much that can’t be cancelled, unless you want to come with me to a deathly dull charity dinner.”

“Not really. Want an excuse not to go?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Then I, Michael Baker, am your knight in shining armour.”

“Actually, it’s Mike Kennerty. I go by my mom’s maiden name. You saw what my dad was like, so.”

“Ah. Yeah.”

“Your name’s Morgan, right? Chris Morgan?”

“Actually it’s Gaylor. Keller just called me Morgan because his last dogsbody was called Morgan and it’s easier for him to remember.”

“Oh. So Chris Gaylor, what did you have in mind? To whisk me away from five hours of boring conversations.”

“I was thinking maybe of giving you a blowjob,” he answered, grinning over at the woman who heard him and looked shocked. “If that’s alright.”

“Hmm, let me see, boring dinner or blowjob — yeah, okay, I’ll take the blowjob.”

“See, what did I tell you. Knight in shining armour.”

“You know, I think my apartment counts as a dragon-guarded tower room. I had an accident with a toaster a couple days ago, there were flames.”

“This is getting uncanny. I’ll get a noble steed next.” He paused. “Actually, I do need to call a cab.”

“Or I could come over to your place?” Mike suggested.

“No,” Chris said, too quickly and forcefully. “Sorry, just — I had a fight with my roommate, I don’t think he wants me around right now.”

“Ahhh,” Mike sounded like he was grinning. “And the ulterior motive is revealed.”

“No, it’s —”

“Hey, I mostly don’t want to go to this dinner because my sister will be there and she’ll end up mentioning me to Dad. We can be each other’s excuse.”

“I really do want to see you,” Chris pointed out.

“Same.” Mike’s voice was warm. “Come over. Stay the night, if you want.”

“I do. And not just because I don’t want to go home, I swear.”

“Yeah, yeah. Make it up to me.”

“I will.”

$$$

Nick was sitting, alone, nursing a glass of wine when Tyson got back to the suite. Shabba was out playing poker, Kim had ditched them both for a date, and Tyson had got sick of sitting in an empty booth at Toad’s. (Toad had been busy.) So he’d gone home.

“Hey,” he said, going to the cabinet to grab a tumbler and some ice. “You alright?”

Nick swallowed a mouthful of wine and let his breath out. “Yeah, just. Thinking.”

Tyson poured whiskey over the ice cubes and settled on the couch next to Nick. “You know that’s dangerous,” he said, grinning a little. A corner of Nick’s mouth quirked up. “What are you thinking about?”

Nick just looked at him. “Chris,” he said after a minute.

“Ah.” Tyson nodded. “Thought so.” There was silence for a couple of minutes, and then he ventured, “People make mistakes. Even Chris.”

“Not everybody makes out with the homophobic mark’s son right in front of him,” Nick pointed out.

“Well, no, yeah, that was pretty stupid,” Tyson agreed, a small breathy laugh framing the last words. The same corner of Nick’s mouth lifted a little. “You know it’ll be okay, though, right? I mean. You’ve got all those plans, and anything that comes up, we can deal. We’re the best,” he all-out grinned, spreading his arms expansively.

Nick sounded thoughtful when he said, “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

Tyson turned to look at him. “It was a temporary setback. Didn’t even stop the momentum, just … made it stumble a little.” He put his glass down, leaned closer, and placed a hand on Nick’s cheek to stop him from turning away. Burning it into him with his eyes, Tyson said, “Stop. Worrying.”

Nick’s breathing quickened. Tyson became suddenly, startlingly aware of the way Nick was breathing, the way his eyes were going dark, the way his cheek was kind of warm under Tyson’s fingers. The tip of Nick’s tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip, and Tyson felt like he was watching himself lean in, unable to stop it, because he knew what would come, he knew Nick would move away before Tyson’s mouth could make contact, knew because it had happened before.

Nick didn’t move.

His lips were slightly parted when Tyson’s came into contact with them. Tyson felt Nick’s tongue flick out, catch his lips, and in one second flat their mouths were open and their tongues were licking at each other and Nick’s hand was in Tyson’s hair and Tyson was _groaning_.

Nick broke away after two minutes, or was it five seconds, or was it a month. His mouth was red from the wine and where Tyson had nibbled at his lip. “Fuck,” Nick whispered, standing up and pacing over to the window. The balcony door was ajar, cool night air floating in, making the curtains billow slightly. “I can’t do this,” Nick said, back to Tyson. “I can’t fuck up this crew.”

Tyson went over and stood behind him, softly snaking his arms around Nick’s waist. He felt Nick lean back against him and moved closer. “I don’t want to fuck up this crew either,” he said, quiet. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my life. But Nick,” he breathed, nuzzling until he was inhaling the scent of Nick’s skin.

“Ty,” Nick exhaled, angling his neck. Tyson pressed soft kisses just underneath Nick’s ear. Nick shivered. “This is the best crew I’ve ever had. I can’t,” he tipped his head back, voice strained, as Tyson splayed a palm on his stomach, “mess that up, I _can’t_.”

“What if it doesn’t mess it up?” Tyson whispered, flicking his tongue against Nick’s earlobe and inching his fingertips lower. Nick’s hips angled up. “What if we can screw,” he slid Nick’s belt up through the buckle, unhooking it, “and still work together,” sliding the belt free, “and screw some more,” gently tugging Nick’s shirt of out of his pants, “and not mess up the crew?”

“Not people I work with,” Nick muttered, breathing hard. “Don’t — sleep with people I work with.”

“I heard about you and Chris,” Tyson pointed out.

“Sleep with. I screwed Chris, there’s a difference.”

Tyson halted. “Oh.”

Nick was almost panting. “What do you want, Ty?”

Tyson kissed his neck, soft desperation. “I want to sleep with you.”

“Same,” Nick said. “But the crew comes first.”

Tyson growled softly in his throat. “Fuck the crew.” He bit lightly at Nick’s neck, smoothing the skin with his tongue.

“You don’t mean that.” Nick’s knees buckled slightly.

“No,” Tyson’s voice was low, “I don’t.” He dipped his hand, splaying it over the front of Nick’s pants. Nick hissed in his breath, tilting up into Tyson’s palm. “I just don’t think it has to automatically fuck up the crew if we’re sleeping together,” Tyson forced the complete sentence out, palm _itching_ to unzip Nick’s pants and just reach in. He could feel how hard Nick was, and how hard he was _shaking_ , and he ground against him desperately.

Nick pushed back onto him, letting out a loud groan. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, and then turned around quickly and kissed Tyson so hard their teeth crashed together. “ _Fuck_ , okay, _okay_ , just _fuck_.”

Tyson reached around to grab Nick’s ass, squeezing a little as he pushed their pelvises together, grinding hard. Nick was grabbing Tyson’s ass and doing exactly the same, and the friction sent jolts all through Tyson’s body. They started moving, bumping into cabinets and couches, until they reached the connecting door to the bedrooms and Tyson fumbled it blindly open and yanked him through, closing it and then pushing Nick’s back up against it. He unzipped Nick’s pants, shoved them and his underwear down, and wrapped his hand around Nick’s cock.

Nick threw his head back. “I’m not gonna last long,” he warned, arching his back against the door, and Tyson groaned.

“Neither am I if you keep doing that,” he breathed, using his free hand to undo the buttons on Nick’s shirt; and then he quickly sank to his knees and, before Nick could open his eyes and even notice he’d gone, Tyson took Nick’s cock into his mouth.

Nick’s hips twitched. “ _Fuck_ ,” he yelped, hands going for Tyson’s hair. Tyson sucked, groaning, and it only took a minute for Nick to come, Tyson’s free hand stroking his balls. Tyson swallowed, Nick moaned softly, and Tyson stood up again.

Nick slammed his back against the door. He kissed Tyson once, _hard_ , undoing belt and pants zip in one fluid motion, and then sank to his knees. Tyson’s eyes slid closed as he felt Nick’s mouth on his cock, wet and hot. Nick sucked, cupped Tyson’s balls, and _hummed_ , and Tyson squeezed his eyes _tight_ and came. He’d only lasted ten seconds, but he’d been sure, before those ten seconds, that Nick would only have to brush lightly against him and he’d come.

Nick stood up, wiping the corner of his mouth and licking his fingers. He was smiling.

“I have more stamina than that,” Tyson felt he should point out.

“Uh huh,” Nick said, still smiling.

“You were _driving me crazy_ ,” Tyson rolled his eyes. “For _months_ , Wheeler. That makes a man quicker than he usually is, if you catch my meaning.”

Nick’s mouth quirked up.

Tyson grabbed Nick’s shirt and yanked it off. “I’ll _show you_ how much stamina I’ve got,” he growled. Nick had ditched his pants and underwear and must have kicked off his shoes at some point, and now he helpfully relieved Tyson of the rest of his clothes. Tyson kissed him, pressing as close as he could, almost full-body skin contact. He tingled all over, every inch of him.

“My room,” Nick said, and it wasn’t a question. Tyson nodded, and Nick started walking him there.

$$$

Chris hesitated before he knocked on the suite door the next morning. Shabba opened it, and he was smiling, which Chris took as a good sign. “Nick around?” he asked, making his way over to the couch.

“Not yet.” Chris looked at his watch, and saw out of the corner of his eye that Shabba was doing the same.

“Was he, um. Was he okay last night?”

“He was already in bed when I got in,” Shabba admitted. “Kim didn’t come home either.”

“ _Kim_ just got back,” said a voice behind Chris, and he turned to see Kim. She squeezed his shoulder and disappeared through the connecting door.

“Shab, look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I didn’t know Mike had anything to do with the mark, I swear.”

“I gathered that.” Shabba was watching him carefully. “Chris, you know I love you like a brother. So you know when I say this that I’m trying to look out for you.”

“You think I shouldn’t see Mike,” Chris filled in the pause.

“Not until the con’s over,” Shabba confirmed. “Maybe not even then. Think about it,” he continued as Chris ran a hand through his hair. “He knows Mike knows you. Do you really think he won’t use that to try and come after us?”

“Mike doesn’t know where I live. He — he doesn’t know anything.” Chris picked at a loose thread on his shirt.

“Chris, the man is going to lose half a million dollars, do you think he’s going to believe his son doesn’t know anything about it?”

Light dawned. “Holy shit, I didn’t even — he’ll be furious, he’ll — fuck, he’ll blame Mike. Fuck.”

“Do you really think he’ll blame him?” Shabba asked, surprised. Chris dropped his head into his hands.

“He will. He blames Mike for everything that goes wrong, even if Mike wasn’t there or had nothing to do with it, this is — shit, I have to warn him to — I don’t know, _something_. Hide, somehow.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I don’t know.” Chris uncovered his face, and he saw Nick standing in the doorway. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Nick.”

“Shabba’s right. You shouldn’t see Mike,” Nick greeted him. He added, “But you probably should tell him to lay low. Nothing else. Just lay low.”

Chris sat back, tilting his head until he was staring at the ceiling.

“We have a new driver?” Nick continued. His voice sounded a little different, warmer.

“Yeah.” Chris closed his eyes. “John Jackson, he’s one of ours. Said he’d be happy to do it.”

“Good. Thanks.” Nick’s voice sounded a little like he wanted to laugh, and Chris turned his head to try and work out why, only to see the exact reason.

Tyson was standing behind Nick, arms wrapped around him, cheek pressed to Nick’s. Unless the light was playing tricks, Nick was glowing slightly. Tyson definitely was. A smile cracked across Chris’s face, and he tipped his eyes back to the ceiling. “I see you came to your senses.”

“Don’t push it,” Nick warned. “You just pissed off the mark _and_ created a link to us.”

“It won’t lead here,” Chris pointed out. “It _won’t_.”

“It had better not,” Nick said. Tyson nuzzled his hair, and the look on Nick’s face melted a little.

“ _Fi_ nally,” Kim laughed, squeezing past them through the doorway. She had on a fresh outfit, pants and a shirt, instead of the dress she’d come home in. “You two got your act together, I see.” She pinched Tyson’s cheek as she passed, and he blew her a kiss.

Nick turned to look at Tyson. “See, this is what I was talking about. Nobody’s focusing on the con.”

“We’re gossip for five minutes,” Tyson beamed at him. He looked like he could pretty much float away. “They’ll get over it.”

“Yeah, so I got us a new driver,” Chris said, loudly, and sat up. Kim had grabbed herself an orange juice and sat on the couch next to him. Nick and Tyson made their way over, hardly breaking contact. “And the gallery’s all set up for the show tonight. He’s signing after that, right?”

Nick nodded. “Said he’d bring the papers with him. Chris, you all set up for the rest?”

“Yup, all ready.”

“Great. You all know your jobs, so let’s go do them.” Nick turned to Tyson, the meeting over, and said, quieter, “You want to go get breakfast?”

Tyson nudged their noses together and smiled. “Yeah, okay. Unless you want to eat right here.” He grinned, tipping his head, Nick leaning in and kissing him.

Chris and Kim threw cushions at them.  



End file.
